, ---/' # " \ ., .. ï " "":'- "-- , '" - K ,... . .....1 ..> . -----j l 44 t \.,/""'"^ L . ) 4 .. n(J Y;jJ ;.- 'L, I r ., , j "I'll have the business woman's lunch." Dabneys have been told, but their chil- dren are still loose in the village. From the kitchen, Jonah and Reah can see them preparing for another activity. Mossie has blocked off a section of road with Mr. Rowland's sawhorses Obstacles are placed be- tween the barriers for a skateboard slalom. M R. ROWLAND says he isn't accus- ing anyone of stealing the saw- horses he Just wants them returned. But they sit in the ditch by the road for a day-ùntil they belong to no one, and Mossie carries them up to her yard. When Mr. Rowland hears about it, it's too late. The trestles have been dismantled and their legs have become the legs of something else M ossie is building. Her lumber, not all of it scrap, is coming from sevet:al back yards. The full sheet of plywood that used to be tacked against the Harrells' shed hap- pened to be more like part of the wall than a discard, but Jonah isn't going to say anything about it. "It's a bed. She's making a bed!" Reah exclaims as they're driving past the Dabneys' yard. "That takes gump- tion. Look, she's got some of the boys helping her." "Plywood is four by eight." Jonah calculates. "Thirty-two square feet of . . bed. She'll never get it up the stairs." But next day the new bed is some- where inside the house. B EFORE Sandra has fully recov- ered, there's a rumor the Dabneys are leaving Worton. Not true. They are having a house-and-yard sale, but they're not moving-just raising gro- cery money. The sale is to be Sunday. But what will they sell? "Odds and ends the children have 'found' around the village," Jonah suggests. "Don't be like that," Reah tells him. Sunday, almost everyone is at the sale-even Mrs. Crider's mother, who can't get up and down stairs. Reah, looking for the hypodermic, is going to steal it back if she gets the chance. She thinks someone-the police or Mossie's parents-should have confis- cated it before now. People aren't be- ing very subtle, she s afraid. Mrs. Dabney must have overheard Paula Rowland say the garden shears on the table outside looked just like the ones she'd lost. Upstairs, a group is standing around the little iron bed. The brass knobs have been polished, and it's agreed the price is reasonable for what certainly looks like an antique. "But if they're selling it," Mr. Rowland says, """"'" "they're right back where they started. Five bodies) three beds." People are still circulat- ing through the rooms, and there are a few in the yard. Reah has found the needle; it's in her purse now. She can hear Mrs. Crider's mother in the front hall repeating, "She's a better housekeeper than I ever imagined." Mrs. Crider can't hush her. Suddenly Mossie appears in the front door. "There's a thief in this house!" she announces. "N obody leaves until he puts back what he stole." She spreads her arms wide as people make ready to leave right away. Mr. and Mrs. Dab- ney come out of the kitchen, where they have been standing in shy re- treat by the cashbox, and Mossie has to giv up her blockade of the doorway. At home, Jonah wants to know what Reah in- tends to do with it. The needle, she says, is already under the sink in a plastic trash bag done up with a twist tie. Tomorrow she's going to throw the bag on the garbage truck her- self. "Look," Jonah says, at the window. "Here they come again." Mossie-her brothers in tow-is coming down the road; she's stopping at each door, ask- ing something. "What does she want this timer" Reah wonders "What are you going to tell her r " Jonah asks. From far down the road they can hear Mossie's father yelling at her. "Get those children back here. There's measles allover down there." Mossie is riding Sandra's two- wheeler now, pedalling through the village, watching Jonah and his neighbors retreat into their quaran- tined homes. - JOHN ROLFE GARDINER . "The point is that it's all relative to what is the norm. Thirty thousand a week in this industry is not a high salary. There is no pension plan for actors, no security in the cocktail hours of their lives. Y ou have to build a nest egg while you can." - The Times. Could you make that a devilled egg, to go with the drink?